A Plan
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: Part of the "Things Go Too Far" series. Still thinking of Dr Clarkson, Isobel hatches a plan. Again, don't take it outstandingly seriously.
1. Chapter 1

**Part of the "When Things Go Too Far" series, and compliant with the other two fics in it: "An Interlude" and "And Ambulance isn't just for Christmas" by Fourteen Hundred Hours. **

**This, incidentally, I am dedicating to Fourteen Hundred Hours to incorporate much lunchtime Dr-Clarkson-related banter. This is what this is; Isobel/Dr Clarkson banter, and a little bit of Hughsie/Isobel thrown in. I also literally flung Branson and Miss O'Brien in for the reason of crowd-pleasing. **

**A Plan.**

Isobel was avoiding the hospital rather studiously, and had been for the past week. She knew it was rather childish of her, in these troubled times she oughtn't to be shirking away from her duties, but she highly doubted that she would be a great deal of use if she _was _there when every time she bumped into him she also met with a pretty vivid memory of his having nearly ravished her, and thoroughly at that. Ah, the anatomical efficiency of a medical man. Now that was enough to make even the most capable of nurses sloppy with a stethoscope!

At the end of the day she only had herself to blame. Yes, granted, it had been him who instigated the ravishing, and indeed him who had launched himself on top of her. These... incidents could, however, have gone almost unnoticed had she not subjected them to such vigorous re-examination at least once a day for the past week. Perhaps he was a little bit to blame too though, she acknowledged: for being so confoundedly charming, in a beaten kind of way. It could have been almost rugged- had he so chosen- but he favoured the clean cut approach, and garnered no opposition from her direction. She certainly didn't trust herself to see him in the ward; masterful in his natural habitat. He had plenty of patients on his hands without her fainting from joy.

Having been initially pleased with the success of this plan of avoidance, she was rather put out when she found the seeds of rebellion being sown in her own mind. She found that she craved a repetition of these incidents: she would be lying monstrously if she claimed that she had not enjoyed them. When it came down to it, she could not resist his charm: she would gladly marry him on the basis of charm alone. And so another plan formed in her overheated brain; the ingenuity of which she rather prided herself with, and wished her scheme was honourable enough to be able to tell anyone about it, so that they might remark at her great cunning and wit.

The simple fact of the matter was that these days, whenever the telephone rang he seemed to jump at it. Granted, the time he had knocked her over, he had done so with rather extraordinary force, but nevertheless she clearly saw a pattern emerging. Her course of action, then, was clear. She simply needed to position herself in the vicinity of the telephone and hope that when in rang he might humour her again. More than one kind of good was coming from this ambulance scheme!

So, armed with her own craftiness, she finally found it safe to venture towards the hospital. Inspiration struck at the last moment before her departure.

"Mrs Hughes?" she addressed the housekeeper as their paths crossed as Isobel made her way to the front door of the big house.

"Yes, Mrs Crawley?"

"I wonder if you might do me a favour?" 

The housekeeper eyed her rather suspiciously; Isobel got the feeling that had she simply distributed an order, she would not have caught her particular attention: the ruling classes tended not to ask for favours of their servants unless they were decidedly up to something.

"What might this favour be?" Mrs Hughes asked politely, but with a definite air of uncertainty.

"I'd like you to telephone Dr Clarkson for me, at the hospital, in half an hour."

There was a pause.

"And say what, exactly?"

Isobel thought for a moment, though perhaps it would have been best to do that before she'd begun this conversation. Finally, she patted the housekeeper on the hand before moving off.

"You'll think of something," she assured her, heading towards the door.

…**...**

There was however, a hitch in Isobel's brilliance. The hitch being that when she arrived at the hospital she was informed that Dr Clarkson and Branson had already taken the ambulance out. Trying to remain unperturbed, she informed the ward sister that she would wait in Dr Clarkson's office.

She waited, all the while hoping that he might arrive in time for his cue. She had no such luck however and the telephone rang. Picking up the receiver, she had to admire Mrs Hughes' punctuality.

"Hello," she tried to sound vaguely like the ward sister, in case it was Dr Clarkson telephoning for some reason or other: she didn't want him questioning her as to what she was doing in his office.

"Hello," came Mrs Hughes' voice, "Dr Clarkson, is that you?"

"Mrs Hughes!" Isobel replied, momentarily indignant, "I may, for my own reasons, have been trying to sound unlike myself, but that is no reason to suggest that I sound like a man!"

"Mrs Crawley?" the housekeeper asked, evidently perplexed by the scenario that was emerging to her, "What on earth are you doing answering Dr Clarkson's telephone? You did ask me to ring him up, didn't you?"

"I did," Isobel conceded, "And you have done so splendidly."

There was a pause. And then the housekeeper asked the inevitable question.

"Why did you ask me to telephone him?" she ventured.

Isobel bit her lip.

"For administrative reasons," she finally concluded.

"Administrative reasons?"

She could almost see the housekeeper's eyebrows rising into her hairline. This was not going well at all.

"Yes," she replied weekly, "The... the telephone needed administering to. And it has been done. Good day to you, Mrs Hughes."

She slammed the receiver down before the woman got the chance to ask any more questions. No doubt she would explain and apologise later. Perhaps. Breathing a sigh of relief she turned in her chair to face the room. And almost fell off it when she saw Dr Clarkson standing by the door, watching her with the traces of great amusement in his face. He must have let himself in while she was immersed in her conversation. She felt herself gulp, and was grateful that she was sitting down- for the sake of her joints.

"Answering my telephone, Mrs Crawley?" he enquired levelly.

"Yes," she replied, "You weren't here to do it."

"Anything important I need to know about?"

"Pardon?" 

"On the telephone?"

"Oh. No."

There was a pause. A handsome one. His aura tainted even the silence.

"How's the ambulance?" she enquired, "Has Branson thought up a name for it yet?"

"I'm afraid Miss O'Brien heard of our scheme and laid claim to it. Sarah's not a bad name for an ambulance."

"No," she agreed, "And if we'd let Branson choose it, no doubt it would have ended up being called Sybil. Ah," she continued breezily, "The romantics of the young."

She hoped that didn't sound too much like hinting. Which it undoubtedly did. He looked down at her seriously.

"I don't think the ambulance is quite an "Isobel"," he told her, "Regrettably. Or else I'd have insisted on it."

"I was so hoping you'd say that," she told him.

Then, she got up and kissed him.

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	2. Chapter 2

**Success**

_**Slightly **_**more serious. But not much.**

By the time they had reached the hall where everyone was dancing, Isobel found that she was beaming unashamedly. She knew now that this was no accident; his behaviour towards her was no accident, and of this she was exceptionally glad. He held on to her hand as they made their way to the centre of the floor; she was very grateful that she was wearing gloves, for if she hadn't been, surely her hand would have been tingling to the point where she could hardly move it. They stopped, turned to face each other and assumed a dancing stance.

Neither of them particularly excelled as a dancer, it had to be said, but people didn't seem to mind- respected as both of them were around the community people didn't seem to mind too much that the guest speaker and the governor could barely navigate their way around the floor without bumping into someone or other. They themselves didn't really notice: if Isobel was asked she would have to admit that she was paying far more attention to the doctor with his arms around her, than where on the dancefloor he was leading her to. She would have to admit that she was almost giddy.

That was a point, she realised during their second dance, they were much closer together now than when they had started off. Mercifully, the musicians had opted for a slower number this time around and they were no longer creating such uproar in terms of narrowly avoiding collisions with other pairs, and now, Isobel noticed, Dr Clarkson had almost completely enfolded her in his strong arms. If anyone were to take notice of them now, she was sure, it would provoke a lot more chatter about the village than their earlier exuberance had. But she resolved not to care; it had taken her, in fact both of them, a great deal of scheming to get this far: she was determined to enjoy it.

Now that he had calmed down a little bit, and wasn't trying to trample their fellow dancers, Isobel found that Dr Clarkson was a most agreeable dancing partner. He held his body with good enough posture to allow her to lean slightly more in towards him, without it being too noticeable. He guided the way masterfully for her, and she could only follow him. Seeing the expression on her face, he smiled at her roguishly. She laughed, casting her eyes briefly up towards the ceiling. Her purpose in doing so was twofold; to avoid letting him see the profoundness of the effect he was having on her, and because, for her age, in her own humble opinion, she had a marvellous neck, to the point where she rather prided herself on it. Perhaps, though, he already knew that he had turned her completely to jelly; he was largely supporting her weight from time to time when her knees saw fit to give way. She did not feel guilty for putting this strain on him, it was his fault after all, and she sensed that he was rather proud of it.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" she asked him in a low voice, just as he turned her around to head in the opposite direction.

He raised his eyebrows.

"Aren't you?" he wanted to know.

It would have been improper to reply "Far too much", so instead she cleared her throat. He gave another grin.

"Where are we going?" she asked, realising that he was slowly but surely dancing them off the dancefloor.

In fact, out of the room. He had waltzed them straight into the cloakroom off the main hall. Puzzled as she was by her new surroundings, she still felt a pang when his arms left her waist so he could close the door behind them. Looking around at the rows of coats and straw boater hats around the walls, Isobel waited for him to explain himself.

"Mrs Crawley," he began in a voice that suggested no hint of hesitation, "Would you prefer it if I asked you to marry me now, or if I waited until you were in the vicinity of a telephone and I rang you up to ask?"

"Now, please," she responded immediately, without a second thought, then allowed her mind to double back and take in what he'd actually said, "Why on earth would you telephone me to do it?"

He shrugged.

"I thought it might be fitting," he replied, and did not look affronted when she snorted heartily, "So," he began, with quite an endearing degree of enthusiasm, "When shall we get announce it, then?"

"As I recall, I haven't actually said yes yet," Isobel pointed out.

"But you will," he told her, though she did not miss the slight trace of uncertainty in his voice, "You've just asked me to ask you to marry me."

"You offered to ask me to marry you first."

He folded his arms across his chest. It was hard for Isobel not to burst out laughing at the expression on his face. Really, in light of the way he'd had her as putty in his hand and had managed to seduce her so efficiently, it was astonishing how easily he allowed himself to be wound up. She would have to remember that for in future, in case she found herself in need of amusement.

"Mrs Crawley, I don't throw myself at women lightly, you know."

"I know you don't; when you did it to me, you knocked me down to the floor," she reminded him, purely to see if she could make him cross enough to do it again. She would dare to venture that she _almost_ succeeded.

"Mrs Crawley," he began again, more tersely still, "I am trying to tell you how much I admire... and love you. Though Heaven knows why," he added, his exasperation with her still evident. He cast a wary glance at her, and asked in a very businesslike tone, "You're not going to say no, are you?" 

Finally, she decided to take pity on him.

"No, I'm not," she conceded, "I will marry you."

She is fully expecting it, the way his arms move to quickly enfold her once more in sheer relief, she almost orchestrated it after all.

"Don't ever make me worry like that again," he told her imperiously.

She bit her lip, which was quivering in a mixture of amusement and something else altogether.

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